


Have you Heard

by Ira_Dunfort



Series: At Odds [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Other, Raphael - Freeform, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), bad taste in music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ira_Dunfort/pseuds/Ira_Dunfort
Summary: The one in which Aziraphale leaves two demons to their own devices. Which is, in all honesty, a splendid idea, am I right?There is cake.





	Have you Heard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadamMortis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamMortis/gifts).

> Who wants some punches in the feels? This is as hard as I can throw them these days. They are soft.
> 
> Enjoy.

They had said they wouldn't be around for a week. It had been a _month_ by the time a certain someone had pushed themselves through the ever so perfect looking lawn which had been littered with the first yellow leaves blown over from the nearby trees lining the road.

Beelzebub stood still in the crisp morning air of late September, kicking at the dirt around them. They miracled themselves a thick and artfully ripped cardigan while their frown was faced heavenward.

Crowley pushed the glass door open, pulling his plush black dressing gown tightly around himself. His naked toes curled under his equally black pyjama pants.

"Wanna come in?"

Beelzebub nodded, eyes lingering on the sky a moment longer before they started to move. His torn red jeans had been a mistake, the air was unforgivingly cold.

As soon as they set their boot-clad feet inside the cottage, Aziraphale pressed a steaming cup of tea into their hands.

"You ok?" The angel asked, voice soft and quiet.

"No." 

* * *

Aziraphale had left to take care of business in Brighton. But, it just doesn't feel right leaving two demons alone, now, really.

"We'll be _fine_, angel." Crowley had said, leading him towards the door. "I'll make sure they don't start another Armageddon, trust me."

They kiss goodbye, letting the cabby wait for a few heartbeats longer.

* * *

The demons had retreated to the living room, Crowley sprawled over the sofa, feet tucked under a blanket, Beelzebub sitting sideways on their usual armchair. They had taken off their boots after Aziraphale had kindly asked for it with the type of politeness that sends a chill down your spine, even if you were a Prince of Hell. They stared at the fluffy red slippers they had been given in return. They were disgustingly comfortable.

"Are you letting your hair grow out?" Crowley asked while typing away on his phone, insinuating some early morning chaos in an abstruse part of the internet.

"Are you?" Beelzebub quipped, pulling out their own phone to simply stare at it.

"Yes." He pushed a hand through his red waves. "He likes it, I like it." He broke into a grin. "And it's _metal_. So, are _you_ letting it grow out?"

"Yes. But it's unnerving."

Crowley shrugged. "Eh, once you get to the length where you can push it behind your ears you'll be fine."

"If you say so." Beelzebub tried just that, pushing a strand behind their ear, but it just wouldn't stay there. They huffed and leaned their head back on the plush armrest.

Crowley knew how to cheer up his angel, but how does one improve the mood of a Lord of Hell? So, he went for what had always helped himself these past few centuries.

"Is that a band shirt?" the local demon asked, pointing at the grey shirt adorned with bright writing.

"So many questions today." Beelzebub cocked a brow, head hanging upside down. "But, yes, it is."

"Any good?" He put down his phone, yellow eyes meeting eerie blue.

"I think you'd like them." There it was, a spark of _something_.

"Want me to put them on?" Crowley, encouraged by his guest's nod, had sat up as properly as his serpent soul allowed it for. A few taps at his phone and YouTube was up on his television. Shortly after, the most cheesy riff filled the air.

"Good Lord." Crowley's brows went up when he saw the singer strut.

_Can't explain all the feelings that you're making me feel  
My heart's in overdrive and you're behind the steering wheel_

Beelzebub seemed amused by their host's reaction.

Crowley scooted closer to the screen. "Wow, this is awful."

"Yes." On their dangling feet the red slippers bobbed to the music off-beat.

"I can't even tell if he's hitting the notes or not. I really can't tell. It's amazingly irritating."

Beelzebub smiled.

"I love it." 

* * *

As it turned out, the Lord of Flies had an invested interested in the creation of obnoxious music on Earth. Cock rock, anything with cringe-worthy lyrics, and a phenomenon only the Germans had found a word for: Ohrwurm. Songs that crawl right into your brain and stay there, putting themselves on loop for hours or even days.

Their greatest achievements included Beethoven's Fifth and Gangnam Style, the latter being most exemplary due to the terrible dance move spreading among humanity like a plague.

Some time after noon, Crowley, now dressed in black jeans and button-down shirt, had grabbed a woven basket and headed out into the garden. Beelzebub followed him, flies spreading once they were back outside.

Basket hung from an elbow, Crowley started circling the apple tree, eyeing each fruit with scrutiny.

"Can I have one?"

Crowley ducked under a branch to look from above his sunglasses at the other demon. "Are you _asking_ me?"

"You're the Serpent of Eden," They shrugged, "this is an apple tree. I assume it's important to you."

"Fair enough." Crowley handed them a fruit. "But the tree was here before I bought the house, it's not really mine, so to say."

"Does Aziraphale even know that you bought it in the sixties to have a little getaway?"

Crowley froze. "How the Heavens do _you_ know?"

They bit into the gifted apple.

"Hmm." Beelzebub caught a droplet of juice that ran down their chin. "How come they're so good?"

Crowley put his basket down and crossed his arms. "Miracle another one."

"What for?" Beelzebub frowned.

"Just do it. Take a bite."

They did, their other hand held an almost identical fruit. They sunk their teeth into it.

"This tastes like rotten _sawdust_ in comparison."

"You see, these apples here? They were cared for. By me, by the sun, rain. And bees, never forget the bees. We gotta do something about the bees." He gestured wildly. "But," He points at the naturally grown one in the other demon's hand, "bottom line is, good things take time and effort."

"Going too fast leads to disappointment, then." They took another bite, expression unreadable.

Crowley, trying to stop his train of thought before it derailed entirely, went ahead to change the subject."I have to ask, why do you call Gabriel 'dove'?" Without waiting for a reply he turned back to the cottage.

"He's the messenger of God." Beelzebub answered as if that explained anything.

"So?" Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them on the coffee table along with the basket. No sunglasses in the cottage, angel rules.

"He's just a glorified carrier pigeon, really. You should see his wings, all puffed up. "

Crowley couldn't help himself, he laughed.

* * *

"You can cook?"

"Bake." Crowley corrected, peeling another apple to later cut it into neat cubes. "And yes, for him, I can. Both, in fact."

"Why?" Beelzebub asked, watching their flies latch to the apple core in their hand. Both demons sat at the kitchen table, a classic rock radio station playing in the background.

Crowley took the bowl of fruit and spread its contents evenly on dough already set in the baking tin. "You've never seen him eat, have you?"

They shook their head. "No."

"Oh, you're in for a _treat_." Crowley smirked. "Pass me the quark."

"My dear, is that apple sheet cake you're making?" Rang a delighted voice from the kitchen door.

"It is!" Crowley wiped his hands on his grey apron as he went to his husband, placing a quick kiss on his lips in greeting. "Welcome home, angel, I didn't hear you come in."

"The terrace door was open, no need to bustle with my keys." He was already on his way to the kitchen counter, a finger dipped into the quark mix which then elicited an obscene hum as he tasted it.

"I see what you meant." Beelzebub acknowledged.

"Crowley?" The angel's tone was bordering on reproachful.

The demon in question handed him a mug of cocoa. "Beelzebub had never experienced the lovely way you consume a meal."

"There is nothing _wrong_ with the way I eat." Aziraphale insisted, stealing a leftover apple cube.

"I didn't say that." He put the baking tray into the oven. "All I'm saying is that I inspired Food Wars as a means to cope with it and make others suffer along with me."

"And you learned cooking after watching it." The angel chimed, wearing a warm smile, leaning closer to catch a glimpse at the timer.

"That is a common thing for everyone who watched it!"

Beelzebub was already on their phone looking up those food wars. They held up the screen for Crowley. "Is this..?"

"Ah, that's the one." The demon confirmed.

"The protagonist looks like you, if you were a brat. A _younger_ brat."

"I know." His voice was full of glee.

The prince kept watching, eyes growing wide. "I owe you a recommendation, this is _everything_. Lust, gluttony, greed, wrath. Now their clothes are just _gone_."

"Basically, yeah." Crowley laughed. "The creator used to do some of the best-drawn porn all of Japan had to offer. All I had to do was grab my angel, take him to Japan, feed him the best sushi the country had o menu, conveniently in the vicinity of the guy and _wham_", he clapped his hands," Food Porn! Food Wars, I mean."

All flies in the room came to a halt. "You made an angel _tempt_ him?"

"He's done worse." Crowley shrugged.

"Shush, darling." Aziraphale tuts at him, picking another piece of apple.

"I wonder how Gabriel eats." Beelzebub mused.

"He _doesn't_." The angel stated and sipped at his cocoa.

"Oh, he will. If I ask nicely." They dropped their phone to the table.

"Not without making a scene." Crowley retorted. He wanted to witness it. There was something positively entertaining about the way Beelzebub was pushing Gabriel into trying Earthly pleasures.

"I'm looking forward to it." The prince of Hell smirks.

"How are you two, by the way?" Aziraphale inquired, not knowing he was about to open a can of worms.

"I miss the pompous asshole." They groaned. "There is so little _time_."

"Can I hear a boohoo?"

"Crowley!", the angel hissed.

"What? There were times when we hadn't seen each other for hundreds of years! They're complaining about a _month_. I didn't even know if anything had happened to you most of the time. If, if they had found out that you had grown soft on me. If they found out you loved a demon even though you never even dared to say the words to me because then it would have been _too real_." He was gripping the kitchen counter, attempting to anchor himself, to calm down.

"How did you cope with that?" Beelzebub asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Faith."

"Crowley, you're a--"

"Demon! Yes! I bloody well know what I am. But what else was left? Giving up? No." He shook his head. "I had faith in him, that he'd wiggle out of them catching onto us, every blessed time. Doesn't mean it hurt any less, that I was any less scared." Crowley's eyes were blown with an anxious, piercing yellow. There were too many bad memories, too many countless nights spent worrying about his supposed enemy. Where he was, if he was hurt, discorporated, _lonely_. "You know why I slept through most of the 14th century? Because I knew he wouldn't be around. I was stuck in England, all death and war, while he was cooped up with those French popes in Avignon. I couldn't reach him. They had practically locked him away from me in some stupid holy cage. So why not sleep? Why should I keep my eyes open if I can't _see him_?"

"Love. Look at me." And Crowley did. He leaned into the angel's touch on his cheek, took a deep breath. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. No one is taking me away. We're safe."

"You are." Beelzebub said, "Gabriel and I made sure of that."

"What?"

"You. Your house. The Bentley, the bookshop you still own, your shared antique shop over in Brighton." Their voice was perfectly calm, but the nervous fiddling with their cardigan sleeves betrayed them. "It's all categorized as neutral ground. Doesn't belong to anyone but you, not even to Earth, so to speak. No one is allowed to fight over it, go near it or near you." They gestured at the couple in front of them with open hands. "For their own safety, of course."

"Except you and Gabriel." Aziraphale added.

"Yes." They rolled their shoulder in an unsure gesture.

"I don't know what to say." Crowley muttered.

"You're welcome." The Lord of Flies sniffed.

Crowley nods, grabs his phone and leaves.

"I may have poked at him a bit too much today." Beelzebub wondered, sinking into their chair.

"Just let him get some air, he'll be back in a bit. He doesn’t take well to kindness, given the circumstances." The angel sat down across his guest, cocoa held in both hands.

"He had helped." The prince murmured.

"Hm?"

"Crowley. With the Pegasus Galaxy, before the Fall. He probably knew I was in love before I did. 'Raphael, let's make that ugly horse.' he had said, then grabbed a handful of plasma and flung it out into the universe. 'See? Now you know where to start.', and that was that."

"It does sound like him, yes." The angel smiled fondly.

The Lord leaned their head on a fist. "He helped me build the damned thing and was cast out for it."

"I don't regret it, Beelzebub." Crowley said, standing in the doorframe. Pacing hadn’t got him far. "I wouldn't have met Aziraphale otherwise." His phone rang like an old fashioned kitchen timer. He went to the oven and pulled out the steaming pastry to set it down on the counter, knife ready to cut into it.

"You could have, as an angel." The demon pondered.

"Eh, wouldn't have been the same." Crowley waved off the idea. "There wouldn't have been cake." With that, he feeds his angel a forkful of just that.

"Oh, dearest, you've outdone yourself."

Suddenly, a crack of lightning, the smell of burned grass and Beelzebub flung himself out the terrace door, plummeting themselves into the archangel's chest.

Gabriel had caught the petite demon, tumbling a few steps backwards, and held them close. "I told you to stop throwing things at me."

"Shut _up_." They hit Gabriel on his bicep in frustration.

"Sorry for being late." He held them by their shoulders, the weight of his hands slowly grounding the bristling prince. "Come here."

For the second time, a second set of angel and demon, just a little higher of rank, was kissing in a cottage garden located in the South Downs.

We're all the same in love.

**Author's Note:**

> This beast wrote itself when I was having a spectacularly bad few days earlier this week. I let it sit, skimmed off the angst, et voila, there it is. The song lyrics are from I believe In A Thing Called Love by The Darkness (so edgy, that name). 
> 
> If you haven't watched Food Wars yet, give the first episode a try. I'll be here, expecting thankyous. 
> 
> See you in the next one!


End file.
